


Small Gods

by TheGoodDoctor



Series: Group Targets [15]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8287970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: There are gods of almost everything.





	

She is ever-glorious, ever-beautiful. Her smile is knowing, clever; her intelligence is extensive, obscure, vaguely threatening and directed, somehow, at you.

She holds in one hand a letter, telegram, telephone. Knowledge spreads around and through her, from her ears to her clever lips to her dancing fingertips.

She is Eve. Stories spread about and through her, ever since she relayed the message of a snake. 

She is the goddess of gossip.

Teenagers pray to her for deliverance from cruel classmates; they never kissed him, never said that, want a way to destroy a bully. Adults, too, though secretly. Don't let my mother hear, make my colleagues tire of telling, keep this between us. Don't tell my wife, boyfriend, boss.

Eve hears, and she smiles her secret, knowing smile. She keeps promises and tells tales as she pleases, a fickle goddess teaching humanity the impact of their sin. Eve lets you feel your own guilt, her cruel retribution a sword of Damocles quivering above your head.

Eve watches the world, hears their lies and their truths, whispers of it in select ears. Her lies are beautiful, her truths are harsh, and her clever lips are never still.

* * *

He is kind. He helps old ladies on trains, teaches children silly magic tricks, gives coffee to strangers. His small acts are just that: small. His is the penny needed to make up the price of your new textbook, the umbrella over your forgotten, open sunroof in a sudden shower, the held door and bright smile.

You say chivalry is dead, and Bill frowns.

Bill teaches you to laugh with and not at, to offer tissues and not comments, to hug when needed. His, too, are the well-meant comments, the gentle yet painful advice. Bill winces, but cannot stop it; he wants only to help, to make this world a little less dark.

Sometimes there is nothing he can do.

He hears people who are sad and wishes he could comfort them, wishes he could remove their pain through little, random acts of kindness. He cannot, but hope struggles on.

Bill tries, all the time, to be kind, and it breaks his heart. His smile is always bright, hand held out to help, eyes sad with the pain and struggles and cruelty of millennia.

* * *

His knuckles are bloody and split. His grin is feral and wild. His shoulders are broad and hunched.

He is the god of pre-emptive defense.

James strikes before his opponent can, knocking teeth and cracking ribs. He is a whirling dervish of fists and feet, elbows and knees, vicious and merciless. He is always smiling, teeth sharp and bared against threats both perceived and real.

James is always one step ahead, hitting before the opponent has their feet beneath them. He is the kid who kicks the bully when he is first spotted, he is the action before the reaction, he is the afraid, the alone, the threatened, the paranoid.

He always wins.

He wins, and is lauded; people saved, conflict ended before it had a chance to begin, no more lives lost. He wins, and is hated; unnecessary, lives lost without reason, not freedom but fear.

James spits blood and grins. You created him. You called for him. You cannot blame him for coming.

* * *

His eyes are slightly narrowed behind thick frames, under dark curls. He is thin, almost painfully so, he lives in a very small flat and he fights tooth and claw for his job. 

Q is angry and alone, can barely afford his home and his food, has an excellent degree, and works as a waiter. The things he can do with a computer astonish his older colleagues, but they make snide comments about his work ethic, the time he spends online, his lack of hobbies. They sniff, look down on him, say that he's only here because he doesn't try.  _ He's had everything handed to him on a silver platter, _ they say.  _ He's only here because he doesn't care. _

He tries to talk to them, he does. They won't ever take him seriously; too young, too stupid, too smart. Too politically-correct, too uninterested in politics. Too liberal, too young to formulate a proper opinion. Too lazy to read the classics, too lazy to have enough time to read anything.

Q is the patron saint of millennials.

Q is young and angry. No wonder he reads of apocalypse, clenches his fists under knitwear, escapes online to others like him. His time will come; and when it does, he will be ready.

* * *

Gareth’s smile is bland, hands folded behind him at parade rest. His voice is smooth and it can sell anything, but it leaves a sense of unease in the ear, a bad taste in the mouth. You would follow him anywhere, but would turn on him in an instant.

He is a good leader. No-one knows what he's thinking, cannot match his words to his intentions. He is ruthless and efficient and diplomatic. He smiles with affectionate scorn upon those who ask for honesty, transparency, and asks them kindly what form of anarchy they would like.

He cannot abide the extremists, the left or the right. Gareth is as centre as they come; stands against nothing and everything, stands for the fashion.

You cannot say you like him, or that you know where you stand with him, but you know he is a snake and, oddly, know where you stand with him in that respect. You cannot trust him, obviously, but you can trust him to be untrustworthy. Gareth smiles; he knows what you are thinking. You hate him, but you'll vote for him, and you know it. Sometimes, we all need a Machiavelli, and your country profits under his sneaky tactics and clever manipulation. 

He knows, though, that he is too clever by half. Gareth wins elections but not popularity contests, and he is all too easy to blame. No matter. He's always there, even if you can't see him spearheading the land. Someone has to pull the strings, and who better than the god of politicians himself?


End file.
